


The World You Know

by Las



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Episode: s05e04 The End, M/M, Supernatural AU: Croatoan/End'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 21:55:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Las/pseuds/Las
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Cas is murmuring something that Dean can't quite make out, so he just focuses on the hypnotizing mercy of a gentle touch. It's not something Dean wants to ask for. The apocalypse asks too much of everyone already, but Cas responds to Dean in predictable ways."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World You Know

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to amonitrate for betareading.

A week goes by and they finally return to Chitaqua.

 Sunita, a gangly teenager of seventeen, is on guard at the gate, and cries out in surprise when she spots them. Dean can hear her voice all the way in the truck.

 "They're back!" Sunita is shouting at whoever's within earshot. "They're back!"

 "We're back," Dean says to Risa in the passenger seat, who is smiling from ear to ear, "just in case you didn't hear."

 The camp streams to the gate, and Chuck trots into view with the key in his hand.

 "You want to do the honors or should I?" Risa asks.

 "All you, man."

 Risa leans out the window and yells, "Christooo!"

 Chuck shouts back, "Roger that!"

 The gate opens. The convoy rolls in to a chorus of cheers, and when they disembark, they are treated like heroes - hugs, kisses, relief at least for now. Dean is careful to keep a smile on his face as people pat him on the back and shake his hand and congratulate him on the very difficult task of surviving at the end of the world.

 He gets to Chuck in the middle of the chaos and speaks in a low voice: they didn't find as much food as they thought, one of the trucks is probably not going to last until the next mission, and they lost Ray.

 Chuck glances surreptitiously at Kate and the fearful hope on her face as she looks around the crowd for her husband. He raises his eyebrows at Dean and Dean moves on to the next order of business. She'll figure it out soon enough.

 "Get the cans to the mess and the boxes to the clinic," he says, and Chuck nods. "Where's Cas?"

 +

 The door to Cas's cabin is ajar.

 Cas doesn't seem to have moved since the convoy left. Supine on the bed with his arm over his eyes, Dean can't tell if he's sleeping or fucked up or being dramatic. His jeans ride low on his hips and he wears no shirt, and Dean can count every rib and recognize every scar that Cas has accumulated since his grace guttered out.

 Dean says, "Got you something."

 Cas grunts.

 "Yeah, you're welcome. We plowed through an aisle of croats to get this shit."

 Dean closes the door with a click behind him, and that's what makes Cas open his eyes. He watches as Dean sits on his bed, opens the bottle of Captain Morgan, and takes the first swallow.

 "How's your foot?" Dean asks, wiping his mouth.

 "Better," Cas replies. "Chris slipped me extra painkillers this morning."

 "He shouldn't be doing that."

 "I'm glad he is."

 Dean snorts, and Cas pushes himself up to a sitting position.

 It's amazing how much small talk they have learned to toss around. It's the end of the world and there's always something else to complain about. Yes, Chuck's cooking is awful, and yes, the days are getting colder, and no, they still don't know where the Colt is, but the last demon Dean talked to said it may not even be in the country. Cas's face goes hard at the last point. 'Talked.' Yeah, well, technically they did talk.

 There are many absences Dean has taught himself not to think about. People have to focus on the here and now, ground themselves in the tangible. In the dim light, Dean can see that Cas's hair is growing long and curling past his ears. All the guys in camp eventually look like this: shaggy hair and a permanent five o'clock shadow. Everyone in camp eventually gets that look in their eyes: the stone-hard loss, the ruptured humanity. But what used to be in Cas's eyes was something vaster. Once, you could look into them and see only the distances between an angel and a man, but Dean isn't sure what he sees there now.

 Dean takes another swig from the bottle, and then he waits.

 "Dean," Cas says softly, and when Dean feels Cas's fingers on the back of his neck, he takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes.

 "Are you okay?" Cas asks.

 "Yeah," Dean rasps.

 "Are the others okay?"

 "I should be out there with them." But Dean doesn't move.

 Cas's hand rests on his shoulder, thumb stroking the side of Dean's neck. The bed creaks as Cas shifts closer, and Dean can smell the cigarette smoke on him, the sour odor of human despair. Cas is murmuring something that Dean can't quite make out, so he just focuses on the hypnotizing mercy of a gentle touch. It's not something Dean wants to ask for. The apocalypse asks too much of everyone already, but Cas responds to Dean in predictable ways.

 Cas slides his hand down Dean's back, and Dean lifts his head to look at him.

 "You look terrible," Cas says.

 "Thanks, I try. You're not exactly Brad Pitt either."

 "Brad Pitt is a croat. TMZ said so before TV cut out completely."

 "Angelina Jolie's probably one too, then." Dean brushes his knuckles against the hollow of Cas's chest. His skin is so cold. Before Cas lost his grace, he was always warm to the touch.

 Cas tugs Dean closer to him. "So, are you drunk enough to do this now?"

 "Fuck you," Dean growls.

 "Yes," Cas says, and kisses him.

 +

 Even though the kiss starts out angry, the anger fades. Dean is too tired to sustain it, and Cas has learned to go with the flow. For all of his barbs and Dean's defensiveness, there is an event horizon to which they submit, guided by something wounded and soft.

 He pushes Cas to the bed and shrugs off his jacket as he tries to pin Cas to the mattress with a kiss. Doesn't work. Dean lets Cas roll them over and tug off his shirt. They wriggle out of their clothes, and the sensation of finally wrapping around each other skin to skin draws a trembling moan from them both, as if they are caught by surprise.

 Cas gasps in pain. "My foot, watch the foot."

 "Sorry."

 So they are careful, and they take their time. Cas mouths the side of his neck, and Dean loses track of whose hands are where, whose pleasure is whose. They slide against each other, hungry for more touch than their skins can provide. The bed creaks beneath them when Cas pushes Dean back to the bed and captures his mouth in a kiss, then slides his kiss down, down, down until he's licking a wet stripe along Dean's cock, sliding his lips over the tip, and Dean can only gasp, "Oh fuck, fuck," until he's on the edge of orgasm. And then Cas, the son of a bitch, he slows down and begins all over again.

 They use what little there is left of the lube, and when Dean goes for the condoms, he pauses. There were five condoms left when he left. Now there are two. Dean can't tell if Cas has calculated for him to see this. It's not like Dean hasn't noticed how clever Cas has become with his mouth, how dexterous with his hands and the roll of his hips. Dean isn't stupid. He may have been Cas's first, but he isn't his only one anymore, hasn't been for a while.

 "Running low," is all Dean says.

 "Good thing you brought more back," Cas guesses, and it's a correct guess. Dean doesn't reply, just tosses a condom to Cas and obeys when Cas tells him to lie on his back. He doesn't like fucking Dean from behind; he likes to watch Dean's face. Dean can't sustain the eye contact. It's too much, too overwhelming to see the way Cas breaks apart for him, the way such vulnerability borders on wildness for a creature like Castiel, whatever he has become.

 Cas rubs the head of his cock against Dean's hole. Dean closes his eyes, tosses his head back, and makes a choked sound at the back of his throat, which is the signal: _do it_.

 Cas pushes in, too slowly than Dean likes, but as slow as he needs. He feels himself stretch open, feels the endless burn as Cas slides in and in. Dean's mouth falls open as Cas bottoms out, and he clings to the strain where the pleasure verges on pain. Cas always takes his time, savoring the moment. The initial thrusts are exploratory nudges, but picking up speed and force until Cas is hooking his arms under Dean's knees and slamming into him. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh is obscene, but a welcome confirmation of mortality. Someday this too shall pass, but for now it's what grounds them both.

 The first time they had sex, it felt like coalescence - a 'therefore' of sorts - though what came before the conjunction remains confounding to them both. What is innate is often a mystery, and the same force that made Dean stand his ground against heaven years ago has become the instinct that draws him to one of their former soldiers, now one of his.

 Dean gives himself over to it.

 +

 There is a brief period in the haze of the afterglow when they are disarmed of every defense and pretense at armor. They tangle around each other, submitting temporarily to the unfamiliar impulse to be soft for someone. They are loose-limbed and pliable enough to feel like they fit together like puzzle pieces. Cas cards his fingers through Dean's hair, and Dean rests head in the crook of Cas's shoulders, the taste of each other still on their tongues. For a few seconds, it feels like the old days, the good old days that never happened to them, where everything was warm and bright, and Dean feels like he can have this, can have Cas, can have everything he's lost, an endless rewind to whatever world he might've had instead of the death and destruction he inherited.

 "I should check in with the guys on sentry duty," Dean murmurs. "They're probably wondering where I am."

 Cas turns his head so his lips brush Dean's forehead, not quite a kiss, but too gentle to be a coincidence. "They know."


End file.
